


Wildflowers

by b_ofdale



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Recall, Secret Admirer, this fic is brought to you by fanarts of McCree with short hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 05:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18986047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_ofdale/pseuds/b_ofdale
Summary: McCree doesn't recall anything of the mission that sent him to the medbay. Neither does he remember the past eleven months. Many things are different: the most unexpected one, it turns out, being the strange warmth that settles in his heart around Genji's brother, Hanzo.But in terms of peculiarity, the mysterious wildflowers that seem to scatter his path might just concur.





	Wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, my first 'big' McHanzo fic. I had actually written another one before, but it was bad so I scrapped it. You get this other, better one instead! After struggling with writer's block for months (my previous fic was written last year) and doubting that I would be able to write something longer than 3k again and be somewhat happy with it, I'm very excited to share this story with y'all, and hope that you'll like it! <3
> 
> My thanks to [Kazeetie](http://kazeetie.tumblr.com) for the editing!! :)
> 
> UPDATE 26/07/2019: now featuring art by the lovely [knif-bullet](https://twitter.com/knif_bullets)!

“Huh. So that’s what happened, then.”

Angela has that look on her face that McCree knows means things were bad. Not hopeless, but far from easy. She wouldn’t make it so obvious if he was any other patient, but McCree likes honesty, and they’ve been friends for a long time.

Next to her, Fareeha seems to feel better than she looked when he woke up to her exhausted, worried face. That was two days ago. Before that, they tell him he’s spent three weeks in a coma. He was on a mission, one that should have been quick and easy, but had gone horribly south. To not force his memories out, they’d avoided the details.

“And you say it’s been a year since—” He gestures around, glances briefly out of the window giving view to the cliffs of Gibraltar. “Since I’ve come back here?”

Angela nods. “Yes. From what you’ve told us, you lost a bit over eleven months of memory.”

McCree’s hand goes up to his hair. He groans quietly when he finds it not long enough to pass his fingers through. He feels, however, the trace of the fresh, nasty scar in the back of his head. He wonders what he’s more mad about in this situation: fucking up enough to lose his memory, or getting hurt so badly they had to shave his hair. “That’s. . . somethin’.”

“Just take it easy,” Fareeha says, reaching for his hand. He squeezes it back, smiles, and can see yet again how relieved she is through the remaining tension in her body. 

“Your memories might, or might not come back. It can take time,” Angela adds. “But as long as you don’t put too much pressure on yourself, I’m positive you’ll regain at least some of them. If not, we’ll tell you the stories when I deem you ready.” 

“Thanks, Angie.”

She pats Fareeha’s hand over his before she gets up, the notes she’s taken pressed against her chest. The softness on her face is quickly replaced by serious professionalism as she gives her instructions.

“No missions until I let you know you’re clear to go. No leaving Gibraltar, either. No smoking for a few weeks. I want you to eat properly, and rest.”

“Got it, doc.” Truth is, he hates it. But he also knows better than to cross Angela over her medical instructions. McCree goes to tip his hat, only to find, with no small amount of frustration, empty space where it should have been. No hair, no hat. Ain’t that great. Instead, he gives her a sheepish smile.

Angela rolls her eyes but returns it. She makes to turn around, only to stop in her tracks and raise a finger. 

“Oh, and just so we’re clear: I will not apologize about your hair, Jesse.”

McCree holds up both his hands. 

“I ain’t saying nothin’!” 

She’s gone without answering, but as Fareeha follows her out after a light slap to his arm and a kiss to his cheek, he hears the light sound of their good humored chatter echoing from the hall. 

Laughing quietly to himself, McCree looks to the bedside table on his right. On it, there’s a tablet to occupy himself, a glass of water, some painkillers should he need them, and, on top of the tablet, a single wildflower. He picks it up, turns it between his fingers. He’s admired it before, finding comfort in its familiarity while he waited for answers. There are many like this one growing in Gibraltar. Even from his medbay bed, he can see spots of their white and purple colors on the cliffs.

“You know, it doesn’t look so bad on you.”

Genji has been standing by the far end window so silently that McCree had almost forgotten he was there. It used to startle him, back in the day. 

“Heh, I guess. It’s gonna take some time to get used to.”

“As do many things, my friend.”

Genji gets closer, then sits on Fareeha’s chair. He points to the flower, tilting his head slightly to the side, silently questioning. McCree hands it to him.

“First thing I saw when I woke up this morning,” he says. “Always liked those.”

Genji hums as he holds it up to eye level. “Yes, I remember.” He puts it back onto the tablet, then locks eyes from under his open visor. “How are you feeling?”

McCree shrugs. “Fine. I get headaches, but nothing a painkiller won’t be able to help.” He pats his stomach, feeling the scar tissue under the hospital gown, then points to the back of his head. “Those are all healed up. I don’t feel a thing. Haven’t tried hittin’ them, though.”

A mischievous smile forms on Genji’s lips as he leans forward. “Do you want me to try?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” McCree huffs. 

Genji leans back against the seat with a shrug of his own.

“You’re right. I don’t want Han. . . gela to kill me in my sleep.”

McCree squints. It’s unlike Genji to stumble on his words. But, he supposes he’s seen stranger things, and this is a strange time. 

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t get revenge myself.”

When Genji laughs, it still takes McCree by surprise, just like it had two days ago. Or a year ago. Whatever. Genji didn’t laugh much, when they were in Blackwatch. He had his sense of humor. They had some good times. But he didn’t laugh like he does now. 

Clearly, he must have gotten used to it before. At least _that_ is one good thing to get used to again.

  


~•§•~

McCree’s room is nothing like he remembers it.

It’s. . . clean. His cactus isn’t dying. There’s a second one he’s never seen before next to it, with a flower bloomed at the top. His clothes aren’t in his travel bag anymore, but rather, neatly placed where they’re supposed to be. His guitar is in the corner of the room, by the bed. His gun sits on the desk, along with his serape and, thank god, his beloved hat. 

“So, you really don’t remember anything?” Hana asks casually, though they both know the question is far from just that, as she puts his belongings on the desk. She volunteered to help him settle back in. 

“Last I remember of you is you challengin’ me to eat a ghost pepper.” McCree shakes his head, amused as if it was yesterday. “You’d think havin’ tried before would make it easier the second time, but heh. It sure doesn’t.” He pauses, rubs the back of his neck. “Listen, Hana, I’m sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Hana interrupts him quickly. “Oh, yeah, that was fun.” She lets out a laugh and smiles, and while it is honest, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, no matter how much she tries to hide it. “Anyway, that’s alright. It’s not your fault. Maybe you’ll remember, and if you don’t, we can always do it all again, right?”

“Sure thing, kiddo.”

She frowns, punches his shoulder weakly. “Don’t call me kiddo.”

“See? I bet that’s how we started.”

Now, that smile—that smile is brighter. Smiling back, McCree then walks away to sit on the bed. He won’t admit it, but he’s feeling tired, and his head aches. “Do I give you hugs?” he asks. 

“The best ones.”

McCree makes a motion with his hands, inviting her closer. Hana grins as she sits next to him and accepts the embrace. They’re silent for a moment, not quite comfortable, but not quite uncomfortable, either. 

“I’m happy you’re back, Jesse.”

Gently, McCree separates them, and answers with another smile. He might not remember, but. . . he thinks he understands why they became friends. Hana’s a good kid. 

Before silence can settle in again, McCree gestures to the room. 

“So. . . do you know who did this?”

Hana’s response is immediate. “No,” she says, her lips then forming a thin line. 

Her expression doesn’t change, and she’s a decent liar, but after years with Deadlock and Blackwatch McCree can tell a lie from the truth when he hears it. Still, he says nothing. Perhaps she’s simply following Angela’s instructions, avoiding telling him and forcefully triggering his memory. At least, it tells him that it’s something he’s supposed to know. 

“That’s too bad. I woulda liked thankin’ them.”

Hana shrugs. "You'll figure it out, I'm sure." Before he can ask what she means, she stands and goes to the door. "Well, you're all settled in. Come and watch me play later, if you want? Either way, you don't want to miss the cake Brigitte made for you." Gasping, she claps her hand to her mouth. "I shouldn't have said that. Bye!" 

She’s gone in a blink. Not before blowing him a kiss, though.

Just like that, he’s alone. 

The room isn’t big, and yet it feels like it is too much so. Or perhaps, it is him who feels small. 

It’s quiet, but not quiet in a way that is soothing. Rather, like something’s missing. That’s. . . new. 

Pensively, McCree threads his fingers through his beard. It’s been taken care of, while he was away. It’s exactly the way he likes it, though perhaps somewhat cut with more precision than necessary. Whoever did it took it more seriously than McCree himself ever has. 

It might be the same person who kept the room clean, or it might not be. McCree supposes that they will make themselves known, sooner or later. 

He lets himself fall on his back, and the mattress feels like a cloud. 

Before he closes his eyes, he sees it, poking from under his hat: another of Gibraltar's wildflowers.

  


~•§•~

Not two weeks have passed and McCree already feels bored beyond words.

He’s helping around the base as much as he can — or rather, as much as Angela allows him to — and practicing in the range when he isn’t sitting on the roof, watching the sun rise and fall. All in all, there isn’t that much to do to occupy his time.

But, there are the cliffs. Strangely, they’ve become the most curious place in the watchpoint ever since McCree caught a glimpse of none other than Hanzo Shimada, hurriedly turning back the moment he looked over his shoulder upon feeling the archer’s presence.

McCree doesn’t think twice about it until it happens a second, then a third time. On the following occasions, he pretends he hasn't heard the wind bring Hanzo’s steps to his ears. He seems to be staying at a distance for a few minutes, and when McCree takes a chance and looks behind him, Hanzo’s gone. 

It’s strange. But in a way, it becomes part of his routine, and gives him something to wonder about. 

Yet, whenever they pass in hallways Genji’s brother seems about to bolt the other way. He averts his eyes, face stone cold. Barely replies to McCree’s greetings. It’s not so surprising coming from Hanzo; they were never close, but it doesn’t sit right with him, either. 

It happens five times in a row until McCree figures there’s only one person he can ask about this that isn’t Hanzo himself.

“What’s up with your brother?” McCree asks as he sits down in front of Genji at breakfast. They’re alone at the far end table, away from the members of the team who seem about to fall back asleep right there and then. 

Genji doesn’t even lift his head from his tablet. “How do you mean?”

“I don’t know. He just. . . it feels like he’s back to step one.”

Last thing he remembers about Hanzo is thinking that the man wasn’t so bad. They’d shared tea in the common room after a nightmare, and though they hadn’t spoken much as they’d headed out to the cliffs, they hadn’t needed to voice what was plaguing their minds to understand each other. Hanzo had seemed ready to warm up to him after that. Now, he was as though miles away once more. 

Genji’s loud sigh brings McCree back to the table, his breakfast getting cold in front of him. Genji shakes his head before he props his chin in his cybernetic hand. 

“I won’t get into the details lest Angela have my head, but eleven months is a long time. Enough time to make friends.” He tilts his head to the side when McCree doesn’t answer. “Are you surprised?”

McCree thinks for a moment before answering. “I guess? I mean, I figured we could get along in the end. Didn’t know we’d become friends.” McCree mimics Genji and props his head on one hand. His brows furrow as he remembers something Fareeha told him. “Wasn’t he on the mission where I got. . . y’know?”

Genji nods, lets out another sigh. “He was. He hasn't been taking it well.”

Something knots in McCree’s stomach. That explains why Hanzo keeps coming back to the cliffs, all while avoiding him.

“I should talk to him, then.” McCree makes to stand. “Ain’t no reason to blame himself.”

A metallic hand stops him, grabbing his wrist gently. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Genji says, and lets go of him when he sits back down, eyes questioning. “It’s been a hard few weeks. He. . . likes you. Believe me when I say he will come to you in time.”

McCree’s not convinced, but Genji knows his brother better than he does. 

“Alright then.” McCree stands up again, and points to the cabinets. “Forgot to get some coffee. I’ll be right back.”

Unsurprisingly, there’s already coffee ready on the counter. Looking through the cabinets, McCree eventually finds what he’s come for: his personal mug, on which ‘yee (and I cannot stress this enough) haw’ is painted in big brown letters. It’d been the price of a bet with Gabriel, and the first proof that his old Commander had a sense of humor. Joke’d been on him, though; he’d loved it, and showed it off every day.

The mug isn’t new. 

The flower inside it, however, is an unexpected sight.

McCree picks it up. He can’t help but smile as he places it gently inside his chest pocket. It’s the fourth one he’s found since he woke up; two on the first day, one last week. And now, this one. As he serves himself a large cup, he wonders where the next one’s going to be. 

When he comes back to the table, Fareeha has joined Genji and is currently downing her own cup of coffee. She greets him with a warm, “good morning” before going back into it. 

There’s a curious look in Genji’s eyes as he notices the flower poking from McCree’s shirt. 

“Someone likes you.”

McCree merely shrugs. “Or is prankin’ me.”

Genji hums, and Fareeha sends him an unreadable look, seemingly stopping herself just in time from reaching out and, probably, slapping Genji’s arm. McCree frowns. 

“D’you know somethin’ I don’t?”

“Obviously. You lost a chunk of your memory, Jesse,” Genji deadpans. Fareeha almost chokes on her coffee. 

McCree slams his hand to his chest in mock offense, tapping Fareeha’s back with the other. “Touché.”

  


~•§•~

The next time McCree finds himself on the cliffs, Hanzo doesn’t turn back.

Instead, as McCree looks over his shoulder and sees him, Hanzo takes one big breath, before making his way towards him. McCree looks back towards the horizon, and waits for Hanzo’s steps to stop.

When he hears Hanzo sit next to him, McCree glances at him. It’s peculiar, how the sight of him so close sets a warm feeling in his chest. “Hey there.”

“Hello.”

Curiously enough, Hanzo is one of the first faces McCree saw when he woke up. He’d almost ran into the medbay room, still holding his phone as though he’d been personally notified. McCree supposes it makes sense, if he blames himself like Genji said. Angela had stopped him in his tracks. They’d talked quickly, briefly. McCree had only been able to see a flash of hurt cross the relief on Hanzo’s face as he’d frozen in place, then left as fast as he had come. 

It’s been three weeks, now. 

“So,” McCree says, “I hear we’re friends?”

If guilt had a face, it would be Hanzo’s. He holds his hands firmly together, doesn’t look at McCree. His lips are pressed in a thin line. 

“I’m sorry.”

McCree knows, but asks nonetheless, “What for?”

“Everything.” Finally, Hanzo looks at him. For a moment, McCree thinks he’s going to choke on whatever his next words are, but when they come out his voice is steady. “For failing you, and for not visiting after you woke up.”

“Well, you’re here now, ain’t you?” McCree smiles, tries to be reassuring. He’s not holding any grudge. “Angela told me you watched over me when I was out. So rather, I think I should thank you, don’t ya think?”

“I do not.” Hanzo’s whole body tenses up. “You don’t know what happened.”

Sighing, McCree takes out a cigarillo, and lights it up, which Hanzo stares at unapprovingly. McCree ignores him. 

“Yer right, I don’t. You’re makin’ me curious, I’ll give you that. But it doesn’t matter: this isn’t a safe job. Gettin’ hurt is a part of it, and you should know that.”

Hanzo looks away. “You _don’t know_ what happened,” he repeats. 

“Don’t care. I don’t blame you none, no one here does, and you won’t change my mind.”

Hanzo huffs, but there it is: the barest hint of a smile, poking out its nose against Hanzo’s will. It’s gone in a blink, but McCree noticed it, and he’s not about to forget it. 

It’s a peculiar feeling; he has no memories of his friendship with Hanzo, but his instinct does. In those last moments with Hanzo he can recall, he didn’t feel as. . . relaxed as he does now. Instead, he’s comfortable, and there’s something almost soothing about Hanzo’s presence.

“Anyway,” McCree continues, “What brings you here?”

“I only wanted to apologize.” Hanzo pauses, eyes getting lost. “And I missed the view.” He’s silent for a moment, until his gaze focuses again and shifts back to McCree. “Your hair is growing back.”

“Slowly but surely!” McCree laughs, running his hand through what little he has left. “Angie’s lucky I wasn’t awake to stop her.”

“It doesn’t look so bad.”

“Are you kiddin’? It’s awful.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes. Some of the tension in his back and shoulders seems to dissipate as he takes another big breath. Figuring out what Hanzo is thinking isn’t hard; he’d believed this would be much harder. It’s different, it’s gotta be. But, much like with Hana while it feels odd and purely instinct-based, the pieces of the road to take easily fall back into place. 

McCree looks up to the sky, takes a moment to feel the warmth of the sun on his face. 

It’s going to take time for things to go back to the way they were. Maybe they never will. But it doesn’t have to be lonely, be it on his or Hanzo’s side. While he understands that, he’s not sure Hanzo does. 

“I’ll be training tomorrow,” McCree says, then drags on his cigarillo. He blows out the smoke away from Hanzo, and watches it drift up. “Dunno when Angela will allow me back on the field, but I can’t let myself fall out of shape, right?” He doesn’t miss Hanzo’s slight flinch at the mention of going back on missions. Following Genji’s advice, McCree chooses not to address it for now. “Would you mind joinin’ me?”

Hanzo hesitates for only a second. “I. . . I’d like that, yes.”

“Great! We can get to know each other. Well, I can get to know _you._ Been missin’ out on a lot, it seems.”

Hanzo stares at him. It makes McCree feel like a hole is being torn through his head. 

Ultimately, he asks, “Why?”

“Why I’d like to know ya?”

Hanzo’s nod is almost hesitant.

“Why not?”

The answer’s clearly on the tip of Hanzo’s tongue, but it doesn’t come out. Instead he opens, then closes his mouth. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he mumbles something in Japanese. 

Quiet falls back. Part of him is glad that Hanzo doesn’t insist, because he’s not sure he’d be able to answer. 

Eventually, Hanzo’s voice breaks the silence, serious and concerned. 

“Are you alright?”

McCree stiffens briefly, and gives him a glance. “Me? Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

Hanzo doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. He’s not sure why he’s so sure, yet there it is: a feeling in his gut telling him Hanzo, unlike most of the others—Fareeha has been reading right through him as well—will not be fooled. 

“I’ve been watching you, and—” McCree is about to point out that’s a creepy way to put it, but Hanzo cuts him off with a pointed look. “No one expects you to go through all this like it’s easy. It’s not. You’re allowed to feel lost. Out of place. Like everything is moving around you at a faster pace than you are.”

McCree blinks at him. Once, twice. How does he know? 

Closing his serape tighter around his shoulders, his eyes meet the ocean below. He’s not sure what to say. 

“I need to go.” Hanzo stands, turning away before McCree can get a look at his face. He feels the urge to tell him to stay, but resists it. “See you tomorrow, then.”

McCree breaks into a smile. He gives an absent nod of his head, thoughts drifting back to Hanzo’s words. 

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

  


~•§•~

After that day, McCree shoots with Hanzo every week.

Days pass, and McCree’s good feeling about Hanzo proves itself a constant more and more. 

They talk often—perhaps as much as they practice, place bets, sit down on the floor with a groan as they share a bottle of whisky or saké until Athena’s voice breaks over the intercoms and reminds them that drinking is for outside and with moderation, thank you. They go to the cliffs then, and whether they talk or share the silence, McCree finds that he cherishes those moments all the same. 

One of those days, he finds a wildflower in the holster of his gun at the shooting range.

He’s stopped counting how many he’s found, always placed so perfectly that it’s like no one ever finds them before he does. 

He’d first thought that the flowers were some sort of prank, but as it turns out, it’s a prank that has lasted a long time now, and always been executed with the same amount of thought and care. No, rather, it seems Genji was right: he’s got a secret admirer, and he doesn’t quite know how to feel about it.

But, and it has since the first time, there’s something about the flowers that warms his heart in a way that is painfully familiar. One that repeats, “Don’t worry about it.” He finds that he craves them, and when a day comes when none cross his path, he. . . misses the sight of them. 

When Hanzo enters the range, McCree is turning the wildflower between his fingers. He holds it up towards him, points at it with his other hand like he’s presenting one of life’s miracles, and grins.

  


~•§•~

McCree stares at the tupperware in the fridge, chuckling to himself. It’s leftover cake, and a post-it has been slammed onto the front of the box.

No handwriting is the same, but Hanzo’s is. . . unique in its own right. It’s a testament of his upbringing, and the years on the run that followed. It’s precise, and delicate, but there’s the harshness of one who didn’t get to write by hand in a long time, and doesn’t care to go back to his old ways. It’s beautiful. Far from McCree’s own. 

‘Hanzo’s. Do NOT touch,’ the post-it says.

Now, that’s a contrast if McCree ever saw one. 

“If there’s one thing I knew would never change about Hanzo, it’s his sweet tooth,” Genji says from next to him, reaching from under McCree’s arm to grab the milk. He pours an unreasonable amount in his bowl of cereal, before putting it back. “I fear if anyone tried to eat this, he’d rip their arm off.”

McCree laughs. “Shame. That cake looks hella good.”

He closes the fridge without taking anything, picks up an apple, and goes to sit on the counter.

“So, how are things going with my brother?”

“What d’you mean?” 

Genji sits next to him and shrugs, in a way that he doesn’t even try to pass off as disinterested. 

“You’ve been spending some time together.” He shoves a full spoon of cereal into his mouth. 

“Yeah, we train in the shootin’ range. We talk. We drink.”

“And?” Genji sounds almost hopeful. McCree frowns at that. 

“Nothin’?” He takes a bite of his apple. When he looks back at him, Genji is staring. “It’s just. . . nice. I like him.” McCree raises an eyebrow at Genji’s approving smile. “What?”

“I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away from you, so I’m happy to see you back together, that’s all,” Genji confesses, then raises a finger in front of McCree’s face. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”

“Don’t worry, I’d figured it out.” McCree sighs. “It’s like. . .” He makes a vague gesture of his hand. “Like guilt is pourin’ out of his every pore. I’m sure he beats himself up for meetin’ with me.”

“Did you try talking to him about it?”

McCree shakes his head. “Nah. Not since the first time he found me. We talk. But he keeps his distance. It’s like, I dunno, like there’s an invisible line he doesn’t want to cross.”

Genji doesn’t reply, but seems pensive. He must have talked about the subject with Hanzo more than once before, but McCree isn’t privy to that. 

“He asks how I’m doin’ a lot,” McCree adds, his voice quieter now. “Doesn’t wanna answer when I ask him the same.”

“He’ll come around,” Genji reassures. McCree’s not sure he believes him, and is about to say so when Genji continues, “What do you tell him?”

“A lot. Everythin’ I think he can handle.”

“How about you tell me the rest?”

“Nah, it’s fine, I—” McCree stops himself, rubs his eyes when Genji sends him a pointed look; in the past there were many instances when Genji tried to avoid such a question. “Alright, that’s fair.”

So, McCree tells him. He tells Genji that in the beginning, he’d thought it wasn’t so bad. Only eleven months, out of all his life. . . He’d thought that as long as he hadn’t forgotten something really important, it was alright. 

Seeing Hanzo, and Hana, and traces of his life on the base. . . 

Turns out he was wrong.

Hell, everything he wishes he could forget, he remembers. It’s unfair that, out of all his memories, he would forget those of his first moments in the closest thing he’s ever had to a family since he left Overwatch. Since Gabriel. 

It’s a lot to take in. A lot to rebuild. A lot of steps to take again. 

But, over time, it does get better. 

Angela takes a while before allowing him to be introduced to Jack and Ana again. He feels angry, and disoriented, and his head hurts. He holds his emotions down, because he knows that they’ve both had to deal with this before. He doesn’t want to be more of a burden than he already is. 

He’s never been as close to Jack as he’s been to Gabriel, but he tolerated him because Gabriel loved him, so getting over the revelation is easier. For Ana, though. . . it’s harder. He’s long thought that he’d never forgive himself for not finding her body when Gabriel put him on the job, all those years ago. And now, here she is again. Alive and well. It explains everything. It means he’s suffered for nothing. 

They have many long talks. Eventually his heart finds peace, and the substitute mother he’s missed so much. 

Over the following weeks, this event triggers memories. Flashes and chunks of them. Nothing consistent, nothing definite. His brain struggles with separating the two reunions, mixes them up sometimes, even though they didn’t go entirely the same way at all. 

He sees other things, as well. Talking with Fareeha in her room, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Helping Mei with dinner, Snowball floating and beeping cheerfully around them, knocking flour all over the counter. He and Hanzo standing close as they speak quietly in a hideout during a mission. Genji introducing him to Zenyatta. Letting Brigitte check on his prosthetic arm, tweaking it a bit. Watching Hana and Hanzo play on one of her streams, Lúcio cheering them on. Just. . . little moments of life on the watchpoint, of past missions.

The memories come and go, more often than not when he least expects it, and when McCree tells Angela of them, she seems pleased. She promises to let him go back on the field by the end of the month. 

That’s good, and he’s happy with this positive turn of events, too. 

But inexplicably sad, as well. 

Something’s not right. Something’s missing. And he cannot tell what it is.

  


~•§•~

McCree sits on the roof, legs dangling off the edge. It’s dawn, and he can’t bring himself to walk all the way to the cliffs. Besides, he likes it here. The view’s just as good. It’s quiet, too. He can drink his whisky in peace. In his prosthetic hand, he turns the wildflower he found next to it earlier tonight, a bit withered. He must have missed this one.

He’s been thinking over the past weeks more than he would have liked. The truth about Ana and Jack, the secret he feels deep in his bones that they’re both keeping, his meetings with Hanzo, his conversation with Genji (part of him wonders if he didn’t tell Genji too much, though it did feel good to talk), his progress. His upcoming return on the field. 

He hasn’t seen Hanzo in a full week. Since he told him that tomorrow, he’ll be back on the Orca. 

It’s not so much being back on missions than inevitably going back on the field with him that upsets Hanzo. McCree had figured it out, pointed it out, and Hanzo had refused to talk about it. 

It frustrates him. It makes him feel like no matter how much he can try, Hanzo will never see what he sees. He’s stuck in the past, and he doesn’t know how to let go, forgive himself for whatever he believes he did so wrong. 

That day, McCree realized one thing: seeing Hanzo like this, while being pushed away for his so-called own good. . . it hurts like a bitch. But it doesn’t mean that Hanzo has no right to feel the way he does. 

He’s been here for hours, and he’s tired from the lack of sleep and the alcohol, but he can sleep later, when his mind will be too exhausted to let nightmares slip in. 

McCree senses Hanzo’s presence before he can hear or see him. What makes him deadly in the field, is usual and unsurprising here. Then, he hears his breath, feels Hanzo’s arm brush his as he sits next to him. 

Hanzo somewhat tentatively puts his hand on his wrist, and gives it a squeeze. 

“Oh.” McCree glances at him, smiles somewhat sadly, but he cannot keep some joy from peeking out, either. “You’re back, then.”

“Listen, I’m—”

“It’s alright,” McCree interrupts after he downed another mouthful of whisky. He’s not drunk yet, only somewhat tipsy — which doesn’t differ much from his usual self, he convinces himself — but if no one stops him, he will be. “You can just say that you missed me.”

McCree takes the short laugh that escapes Hanzo as one small victory, allowing him to get away with taking the bottle and putting it aside, though not before taking a sip himself. “Well,” Hanzo replies, “that is, actually, what I wanted to say.”

McCree looks down at his boots as he fidgets with his serape. “Did you now?”

“Jesse, I—” Hanzo sucks in a breath. He’s never used McCree’s first name until now. To add to the warmth that came at the sight of him, something tingles in McCree’s chest, pleasant and familiar. “I apologize.”

“I told you, it’s alright.” McCree smiles again, genuinely. He briefly presses his shoulder against Hanzo’s, then returns to his initial position. “You got your shit to deal with, just like I got mine. I shouldn’t pressure you to get over somethin’ I haven’t entirely recovered from, either.” He sighs, closes his eyes. “‘s not right.”

Hanzo’s warmth gets nearer. He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame, lets his side lean against it. To his surprise, Hanzo closes his arm over his shoulders, presses him even closer. He murmurs in Japanese, and though McCree cannot understand the words, he exhales like in relief, lets himself bathe in their proximity as the words surround him. 

“Y’know, one day you’ll have to tell me what you’re sayin’,” he mumbles. Hanzo’s chest rumbles in silent, wistful laughter.

“One day.” 

The answer is whispered, almost inaudible. McCree barely discerns it. He’s not even sure he hasn’t imagined it, because it’s what he wants to hear. He opens his eyes, looks up at Hanzo, and marvels at what he sees. 

Hanzo is looking up at the sky, mouthing short sentences in silence, like he’s counting the disappearing stars, or saying a prayer. He’s beautiful. 

McCree’s eyelids are heavy, yet he focuses on keeping his eyes on Hanzo, for as long as he can. His hand clenches on the wildflower. 

As he does so, Hanzo’s hand absently comes up to his head. There’s a pause when it finds his hair, like his fingers should have gone through and combed it. Hanzo recovers quickly, though not without a pause and a breathless sigh, and traces gentle patterns over McCree’s skull instead. Still, it feels good, and McCree is too out of it to entirely realize how intimate such a gesture is. It feels like something he’s been missing, not knowing it should be there. It’s comforting. It lulls him to sleep. Maybe he’s had more to drink than he’d thought. 

Then, Hanzo shifts, until McCree can feel his breath against his ear. He holds his own. He hears the beating of his own heart, deafening. 

“Please,” he says, a murmur. The word sounds funny, coming from Hanzo. The next words are said even quieter, so softly that, before his eyes close again and sleep takes him, McCree doesn’t hear them.

  


  


  


~•§•~

McCree’s return back on the field goes well. The mission is successful, no one is hurt more than Ana can take care of, and after a week they're on their way back home.

It’s a surprise, really, after how much his thoughts have been occupied with Hanzo. It almost cost him a shot to his leg, and a bitter reminder that, had Hanzo been there, his tendency to keep McCree at a carefully chosen distance would have been proven reasonable. 

Yet, the night before he left, Hanzo had gone past that line to show a part of his affection that, McCree was sure, he’d only allowed out because other fears had been too strong to keep him away. 

Not thinking about all that had been. . . more difficult than he’d expected. 

"You've been distracted, Jesse." 

McCree gives a lopsided smile, accepting the bag Fareeha hands to him as they step off the Orca. 

"Yes, you've mentioned it a few times already."

"I'm just worried about you."

McCree chuckles, shaking his head. "Don't. I'm very much fine."

"Then what is it?" 

Fareeha stops him with a hand on his shoulder. When McCree finally looks at her, he sees that what had first been curiosity over the week has now turned into concern. His own expression softens, and he puts his hand over hers.

"Mostly good things. I promise."

After observing him for a moment, Fareeha eventually nods and, to McCree’s surprise, smiles as well. “Oh,” she says, and she sounds almost sad, “I see.”

She only hums ominously as McCree follows her along, trying to get her to tell him what she means, to no avail. She does, however, suggest that they spend some time together. It’s already late, but McCree agrees, if only to prove to her that she truly doesn’t need to worry about anything. 

The common room, it turns out, isn’t empty. Hana is playing on the large screen, headphones on. Lùcio has fallen asleep next to her, snoring lightly. She doesn’t notice their presence as they make some coffee, grab cups, and head to another of the sofas. 

McCree isn’t sure why they speak in hushed tones, but it’s of anything, and everything. The mission, the past weeks, memories from their youth. Fareeha speaks of her mother, and he speaks of Hanzo, and the mysterious wildflowers. 

Talking with his sister does him good. Fareeha seems more relaxed as well, and he can only assume that she feels the same. 

Fareeha leaves first, embracing him strongly before she disappears through the door. He stays a little longer, eyes closed as he exhales slowly, craving a cigarillo. He burned through his pack during the mission quicker than he’d meant to. 

When he leaves, Hana is still just as busy. If she ended up noticing them, she doesn’t say. 

The sight of his room is, for some reason, as welcome as it is dreadful. The feeling is gone fast enough, for once McCree gets closer to the door, he notices a peak of colour through the darkness. 

A flower is attached to his doorknob. 

He rushes towards it, but unties it as delicately as he can. He’d found one inside his bag, right before the mission, and hung on to it like it would make a difference, until it had withered and been caught by the wind. 

Over the past weeks, _months_ , the wildflowers have been a constant. Strangely enough, quite like Hanzo has become. And, when McCree thinks about it, and he has for a while now, he finds that he almost fears to discover whoever is on the other end of these fragile gifts.

He stares at it, standing in front of his door like a fool. He stares, and wonders, and painfully realizes that he doesn’t care who it is from, if it isn’t the one person he wants to see right now. 

Before all this, he and Hanzo had been friends, Genji had told him, and they got that back. That’s good. Precious. He wouldn’t trade it for anything. But. . . telling himself that he doesn’t want something else alongside it would be a lie. 

Upon entering the room, McCree immediately looks for his pack of cigarillos. It sits on the desk, untouched. 

He smokes two of them by the window under the moonlight, eyes getting lost over the star-filled horizon, before falling into bed and leaving mission reports for the next morning.

 

McCree wakes long after breakfast time. Determined to find Hanzo, he only jumps by the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and two of the muffins left on the counter. Brigitte’s, no doubt, and delicious. 

His steps take him to the shooting range, where at this time, Hanzo should be training.

Indeed, the first thing McCree sees as he steps into the range is Hanzo, a line of concentration across his forehead that disappears upon noticing his arrival.

McCree strides towards him, trying with little luck to tone down the hopeful bubble in his throat before he stops at a close but respectful distance from the archer. 

“Someone has been leaving me flowers,” McCree says, holding up last night’s flower under Hanzo’s nose with one hand, holding up a muffin with the other. 

Nothing betrays Hanzo’s expression. McCree deflates, hiding his disappointment with a brighter smile. 

“Oh.” Hanzo pushes his hand away, but takes the muffin offered to him with an appreciative look. He puts it to the side, before looking back up at McCree. “So the one you found here wasn’t the first?”

“Oh, no, definitely not. Whoever is leavin’ them for me is bein’ quite creative.” McCree puts the flower down next to the muffin. He lays his hands over his belt, fidgeting at the borders. “I never stopped wonderin’ who they’re from.” 

Hanzo gives a sharp nod of his head, then turns back to the targets. He raises his bow, tucks in an arrow, and shoots. Bullseye. 

He keeps shooting, not saying a word. McCree waits for a few minutes. For what, he isn’t so sure anymore, but when it doesn’t come he picks up his own gear, and raises his gun. 

Training goes on for an hour in silence. Thus, when Hanzo finally breaks it McCree almost starts and misses the target. He catches himself fast enough, and lands the shot. 

“I’m. . . glad you’re back,” Hanzo says, carefully. 

“Me too,” McCree replies, and his voice turns softer. “I’ve missed you.”

Hanzo’s head shoots up, and his eyes, wild and unsure, meet his. 

“I really did,” McCree insists. “I know you don’t like the idea, but I wished you’d been there.”

“You don’t mean that.” There’s a form of harshness in Hanzo’s voice, now. It’s almost angry, but in a sorrowful, desperate way. Though he means what he said, McCree regrets his words instantly. 

Still, he cannot and will not take them back, and stands his ground. “I do.” Breathing in deeply, McCree reaches out to Hanzo’s wrist. The ghost of a touch, allowing Hanzo to refuse it should it be his wish. But McCree’s fingers close around his wrist without resistance, and under the touch McCree feels an ounce of Hanzo’s tension ease. 

The warmth in his chest spreads once more. Taking a step forward, he holds his breath. 

“I’ll admit it, McCree,” Hanzo says, slowly. “I worry that I will get you hurt again—but seeing you leave. . . It made me—” He pauses, closes his eyes shut, presses his lips into a thin line. “It made me wish that I was there to keep you safe.”

“C’mon, Hanzo. I don’t need protectin’.” McCree tilts his head to the side, tries a smile. “At least, not more than you, or anyone else here, does.” He pauses again, frowns as Hanzo’s words sink in. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘get me hurt again’?”

Hanzo has frozen in place. His expression crumbles, and he frees his wrist from McCree’s grasp, breathing out a single word before McCree can reach out again and ask what is wrong. 

“Go.”

McCree stammers, “What?”

“Please, Jesse. Go.”

The look in Hanzo’s eyes is painful. McCree hates it, and hates leaving him alone just as much—but Hanzo’s words are almost a plea, and his first name spoken in that way rings unpleasantly in his ears. He cannot find it in himself to be the cause of it for a moment longer. 

“Alright,” he says, gently. “Alright, I’ll go.”

He turns and walks away, and as McCree gives a look over his shoulder, Hanzo shoots his last arrow.

It misses.

  


~•§•~

The following night, McCree wakes in a cold sweat, breathing heavily. The nightmare’s claws have him pressed to the mattress. His first reflex is to look for something by his side, but he doesn’t find it. The bed is cold and empty, and, as it often does, it feels too big for him alone.

His eyes dart across the room, taking count of everything he can see, feel, and hear. He breathes in, and out, and in, and out. He imagines reassuring words spoken softly in his ear. 

After taking a moment to catch his breath, staring at the bright moon outside as a grounding point, McCree heaves his body out of bed, and lets his steps take him towards the bathroom. 

The shower, which he takes lukewarm, almost cold, finishes waking him up. He puts on sweatpants and a teeshirt before heading out to the common room. Some tea will do him good, and then, perhaps that with some luck, he’ll manage to find sleep again. 

His pace decreases as he approaches the door. Light is coming from the gap, and muffled voices echo from the room. 

Silently stepping inside, the first thing he sees is the back of Hanzo’s head. McCree doesn’t take one step further in. 

Hana is there, too. She’s ended her stream, and her headphones and controller are set on the low table. It must still be early into the night. 

They’re talking, and the compassionate look on Hana’s face makes guessing what the conversation is about easy. 

Hanzo then turns on the sofa, rendering his profile visible. He looks exhausted, and McCree recognizes the eyes of a fresh nightmare, followed by hours of burdening thoughts. Yet it looks like he’s keeping much of why he's there and how he feels to himself; it shows on his face, in the way he carries himself. 

McCree knows because he used to act the same way around Fareeha, long ago. Hanzo doesn’t want to burden Hana with demons that he deems not worthy of her attention. He doesn’t want to make her carry the weights of his fears and regrets, even if she would do so gladly. 

Their voices are hushed, but through the silence of the room, Hanzo’s words eventually become clearer. 

“. . . not the same, but I think I understand how he feels. When he fell in that coma, I felt like everyone around me was moving forward, while I was stuck in the moment it happened. Perhaps that’s where I am still. Perhaps I need to move forward as well.”

McCree’s breath catches in his throat. This isn’t his to hear. Not like this. 

He turns back as quietly as possible, and returns to his room. 

Tea can wait. 

As he lies in bed, however, McCree finds that his thoughts cannot let him drift away. 

 

McCree's heart leaps against his ribcage the next morning. There's something different about the wildflower left on his windowsill today; a piece of paper was placed alongside it under the small rock that keeps them both in place. 

A note. 

McCree rushes to the window, opening it quickly. He almost knocks his old cactus to the floor.  


  


_“Jesse,_

_I hope someday, I can meet you where you are.”_

  


The message sounds like a strange sort of farewell; sad, but hopeful. Yet, more than anything, it’s the handwriting that catches McCree’s attention.

The handwriting. . . He’s seen it before. 

The image of a post-it stick on a tupperware flashes before his eyes. 

That’s all it takes: he knows, and how right it feels settles in his stomach like the warmth of a fireplace.

Not bothering to change out of his sweatpants and white teeshirt, McCree rushes out of the bedroom. In the dining area he catches sight of Genji and Hana eating their breakfast in Mei and Brigitte’s company. 

McCree jogs towards them, then stops before the table.

“Where’s Hanzo?” he asks urgently.

“In his room, I think.” Genji tilts his head slightly to the side. “Why?”

The look that McCree sends him leaves no place for foolery. “I think y’know why, Genji.”

“Oh.” Genji’s surprised expression turns into a grin, one that blooms on Hana’s face as well. Meanwhile Mei and Brigitte gasp before hiding their smiles behind their hands. “Finally.”

McCree’s brows furrow. They look. . . relieved. Like a weight is being taken off their shoulders, and they’ve been waiting for this moment for as long as he didn’t know he had. All this time, they’ve all known. Why they have never said anything is, for a brief moment, a mystery. But quickly, from Genji’s single word, it makes sense; they kept Hanzo’s secret not only because he must have begged them to, but because they hadn’t believed for one second that it would last. 

He tips an invisible hat, and runs out of the dining area to the dorms.

McCree’s hand pauses before it can knock on the door. He’s never been to Hanzo’s room, he realizes. They’ve always met outside, or in McCree’s room. He hadn’t questioned it, being just happy to spend time with Hanzo as he was. 

Now, he wonders if there was a reason for that. 

McCree knocks. Silence fills his surroundings for what feels like the longest minutes of his life. Clearing his throat, he calls, “Hanzo, it’s me.”

The door opens. 

McCree steps in. Hanzo’s room is a mess. The only thing that has a semblance of order is Hanzo’s archery gear, bow and quiver full of arrows neatly placed against the desk. Hanzo is sitting on the bed, having just finished tying his running shoes. 

“McCree.” Hanzo blinks, like he’s surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.” McCree rubs at his arm, in a way that is uncharacteristically nervous. “We need to talk.”

Hanzo instantly closes off. “Get out.”

The words sting, but McCree doesn’t budge. “You can’t keep pushin’ this off, Hanzo. If you don’t explain to me what this is all about, someone else will, one day or another.”

“You’re right, and you deserve to know, but I _will not_ be the one to do it,” Hanzo retorts harshly. His hands are clenched into fists, pressed over his knees, almost trembling. “Why do you insist? Can’t you accept that I don’t—I can’t—”

“Darlin’, please.” Hanzo freezes, and even McCree’s own breath catches at this word that simply came out as naturally as Hanzo’s name would have. Still, McCree takes Hanzo’s reaction as another confirmation of his suspicions, grounds himself, and continues, “I’d like you to tell me what happened.”

Hanzo’s eyes are wet, and his lower lip is trembling as, before McCree’s eyes, he comes to a decision. 

“Fine! You want to know what happened?” Hanzo’s voice is more nervous than angry. He stands up abruptly, and faces him, his face an impressive display of emotions. “You pushed me out of the shots! You fell, and I couldn’t catch you. When Angela got to us, the prognostic was bad, so bad. . . We thought you were slipping away. Had you not cared for me, you wouldn’t have—” His voice breaks, and he has to look down and steady himself to continue. “You wouldn’t have almost lost your life for mine.”

McCree is silent. Like Hanzo, he doesn’t move. For the briefest of moments, the revelation of the extent of his affection for Hanzo surprises him, until it doesn’t. To understand, he only needs to ask himself a single question:

Would he do it again? 

The answer comes to him fast and clearly enough, the truth of it so strong that he wouldn’t even think of denying it. 

Eventually, he asks in a gentle voice, “If you wanted to keep me away, why the wildflowers?”

Hanzo’s eyes widen at that. He takes a single step back, looks like he’s been punched in the gut. “How—”

“The note you left this morning. Your handwriting. . . I’d seen it before.” McCree smiles. “So, why the flowers?”

“I—” Over the course of the few seconds that pass, McCree watches Hanzo admit defeat as clearly as if he’d voiced it. His shoulders slump, his eyes lose their flames, and he seems suddenly so much smaller. “I thought I knew what I had to do. But I couldn’t help—” He closes his eyes shut. “You used to gift them to me. If there was a part of you that remembered us, I wanted it to know that I missed you.”

McCree shakes his head slowly, stepping closer. Tentatively, but with purpose, he reaches out to Hanzo’s hand. “Y’know. . .” he says, almost drawing out the words, “When I made the connection, I saw somethin’.” 

Hanzo seems to be holding his breath. “What did you see?” he asks. His fingers tighten around McCree’s. 

“I saw somethin’, and it felt. . . I couldn’t place any memories around that image, and yet, yet. . .” McCree pauses, takes Hanzo’s other hand. Gives it a little squeeze. “It felt like that was right where I needed to be. No, where I’d _wanted_ to be, all along.”

“What did you see?” Hanzo asks again, and this time his eyes are big and open, and McCree feels like each and every single emotion is laid bare to see. 

“I saw you. I saw me. How happy we were. And I felt what I felt that day. Whenever the hell that day was, doesn’t matter. I wanted to be with you, and I didn’t want to let you go.”

Hanzo’s taking it in. His silence paired with how he seems unable to go anywhere but closer, urges McCree to carry on.

“I understand why I did what I did, and I would do it again. I know you’d do it for me.” Before Hanzo can interrupt, McCree continues, “I loved you, I know that. And, if you hoped that I’d keep myself safer by forgetting us. . .” McCree smiles lopsidedly as he takes hold of Hanzo’s hand and brings it up to his lips. “Well, darlin’, who’s foolish now? Because here I am again.”

Eyes closed, he turns Hanzo’s hand in his, and leaves a kiss upon his palm. When he looks at Hanzo again, tears are slowly streaking down his cheeks.

“I don’t deserve your heart,” he breathes, and finally, tries to take a step backwards. McCree stops him, holds him there. 

“I don’t believe that. That’s why I’m givin’ it to you anyway.”

Hanzo lets out a breathless gasp. He closes his eyes shut, inhales deeply. Seconds stretch out, and McCree fears that Hanzo’s walls cannot be broken after all, and he will be sent away. 

But then, Hanzo tentatively reaches up to wipe one of the first strands of wild hair falling in front of McCree’s eyes. 

McCree doesn’t move. Not an inch, not a breath. He doesn’t tear his eyes away as Hanzo’s hand slides along the side of his face, to rest at his jaw. Despite himself, McCree leans into the touch, closing his eyes. 

Soft lips gently press against his into a careful kiss. They feel like a memory, one that puts itself back into place with so much ease that it might as well have never disappeared at all. 

McCree sighs, wipes the tears away from Hanzo’s cheeks and grins into that kiss, until Hanzo’s lips form a smile of their own. Their teeth knock, and McCree laughs, and when Hanzo’s unsure but hopeful laugh joins his, McCree knows that this is what he wants to hear and share, for as long as Hanzo will allow him. 

Japanese words flow out of Hanzo’s mouth. McCree instantly recognizes them as some of those he’s heard over the months. 

“So. . . can I know what that means, now?”

Hanzo lets out a long breath. He presses his forehead against McCree’s, expression turning resolute. 

“I think you know.” 

He’s right. Perhaps he does, and wants to hear it again. 

And, as McCree leans in for another kiss, Hanzo all but melting into it, the hole that had been burning through his heart fills with a familiar warmth. Looking up, he gazes out the window and finds, looking back from the cliffs, the wildflowers of Gibraltar.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see what the flowers look like, google "Iberis gibraltarica" or "Gibraltar candytuft", they're super pretty!
> 
> I realize now that I didn't develop some things as much as I would have liked, but in my defense this whole thing is already double the length that I had planned. :p
> 
> Kudos are much appreciated, and even the tiniest comments will send me into a bubble of happiness. Thank you so much for reading, it means the world! 
> 
> Find me on Twitter @ [beelioning](https://twitter.com/beelioning), on Tumblr @ [softcowman](http://softcowman.tumblr.com), or on my shipping blog, [barduil](http://barduil.tumblr.com)!


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